


The Marvels of Human Anatomy in Somnolence and Dormancy

by kirschteinkyojin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Universe, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirschteinkyojin/pseuds/kirschteinkyojin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my contribution to the Jearmin 2015 Secret Santa, I hope you enjoy your gift violletajones, I sure had fun writing it!<br/>A very Merry Christmas / happy holidays to you and everyone else reading, thank you! <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Marvels of Human Anatomy in Somnolence and Dormancy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violetta Jones (ViolettaJones)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaJones/gifts).



Jean snores when he sleeps.

Some nights it is proportionately louder than it is on others; those are the evenings that I lie in bed for hours on end, staring adrift into the black abyss of the shallow ceiling, wondering cautiously if it’s ready to devour me up entirely, or if I’ve been granted the pleasurable torture of trying to stay alive another day in this volatile world of death and decay… another day of trying to keep _him_ alive.

If I’m feeling a lack of macabre or perhaps a rising need for some form of selfish indulgence, then I allow myself to detach my gaze from the ceiling. It’s on those nights that I find my drooping gaze glued only to Jean’s cracked and bruised hands clenched loosely around my frame. They are big hands and they are rough, but they’re gentle when they’re holding me. I wonder often if that’s his way of showing he cares. I wouldn’t usually question his methods- having become so accustomed to his way of thinking after all these years- if it wasn’t for the multiple occasions where everyone from excitable new recruits to unidentifiable stall-owners and young farming aids, have all asked me;

 _“How does that guy not intimidate you? He’s got a pretty scary look about him_ _that’s all.”_

 

Jean’s not scary, that’s just his face.

It’s the same way Historia is told she looks calm and innocent, when really she is capable of far more than anyone will give her credit for. It’s what makes her a great Queen, she can look pleasant and comforting to the eye, and while many may think she has Commander Erwin or Captain Levi pulling her strings, she is very much capable of ruling under her own authority.

It’s the same way Eren constantly looks like fire. He is passionate yes, he knows what he wants. But that is not to say Eren doesn’t know how to slow down, he is after all, very much human too. He needs rest, he needs comfort, and he needs laughter- not to be constantly treated like some sort of dangerous war machine. We have all come to respect him in this way.

Those people are missing out, if they really think Jean is a brash and brutal guy; just because his eyebrows are close-nit together and because his jaw is tense and sharp. They don’t get to see is what I do; and what I see is a story in each of those features. In his hard jaw I see his voice, and I see his passion and I see all of what he wants to say and all that he has ever said. In his jaw I see the honestly of his words and his ability to talk himself and anyone out of anything remotely life-threatening like it’s a winning game of chess. In his jaw I see the voice that I hear and that I love and that reminds me that even if there is no salt water or liquid fire outside of these god-forsaken walls- then at least there’s still him.

That as an earthly creation is beautiful enough in its own right.

In his cracked hands I see his history. I see what he has done, how he has tried, and how he has failed. Most of all though, in his cracked hands I see how he has succeeded, and how he is still continuing to succeed because I can see those same battered palms around me and when he is dreaming they twitch and when he is awake they move and when he is loving me they stroke and they squeeze and _then_ I know he is _alive_.

When I look at Jean’s eyebrows I see his trying, I see his determination, and I see his strength. When his eyebrows pull close I know then that he cares and that he his listening and when his is fighting they dip tight and that’s when I know he is trying his hardest. That’s when I can allow myself to relax the pounding weight against my chest for just a little while, because it’s then that I know I can trust him to win if he cares enough to do so.

Those people, those farm aids and stall-owners and young recruits all miss out because they are too scared to get close to Jean… but even then I can’t bring myself to care. Because sure, they may have the wrong idea about him and his brash personality and his brutal features but they don’t get so see the face Jean makes or the way his body arches off the bed or how his neck reaches back or the _noise_ that he makes when he climaxes. They don’t get to see the way Jean’s hair sticks out in obscure directions when he’s been lying down for too long and they don’t get to see the light stubble that forms by his chin and up his jaw before he shaves. They don’t get to hear the way Jean laughs- the way he truly laughs- like he does when he’s shoving his cold hands under my shirt or blowing his lips against my stomach. They don’t get to see the glassy look in his eyes when I return home to the barracks. They are missing out because they don’t get to _feel_ the strength of his arms wrap around them or hear him whisper into their ear so fragilely and full of intoxicating affection the words,

_“I’m glad you are safe, I love you.”_

 

There’s a little green book in the public library of Karanese District. It’s quite prominently worn and torn, and has clearly been checked-out by a number of different occupants within the time span of the library’s existence. ‘ _The Marvels of Human Anatomy in_ _Somnolence and Dormancy_ ’ written by Dr. R.J. Hucks; it entails the deep and scientific description of both the physical properties of sleep and comatose states, along with delving slightly into the mental psyche of both the unconscious and of those around them. Hucks explains there are three most likely triggers as to someone’s tendency to snore when in a deepened sleep: weight, smoking, and alcohol. Jean’s not overweight, none of us in the scouts are, we’re on a strict and routine exercise schedule and our food rations appear to dwindle down by the fortnight. Jean doesn’t smoke; it’s a far too expensive habit for a soldier to have anyway. If we were rich aristocrats from the interior, with a lot of land and servants and an ignorance to the starving and desperate population around us, then maybe, but no, he doesn’t. Alcohol- sometimes; normally over dinner, on a weekend, maybe after a successful mission. Even then the ale is always watered down, we can’t afford to prize ourselves with any of the particularly good stuff, and you never know when an attack is coming and so one can never become too carelessly consumed by their own material luxuries.

This in mind, I’ve reached my own conclusion that Jean’s pesky habit can only be justified by two other modes of his personality in action. The first is that he is stressed. That one makes a little less sense, because hell, we all are. In fact if the volume of ones ability to snore correlated entirely with the extent of their amounting stress, then the Commander’s would sure be enough to shake down the barracks and the crumbling foundations only just holding the place together as it is.

The second reason is just that Jean must be exhausted. There is little time in the day for any of us to catch our breathes; even less if we’re on a mission. Perhaps when he is finally allowed to let his head fall back against his pillow it is the only time he grants his brain to just _stop_ for a couple of hours. Jean has always been a rather emotional person; he deems it unfair when I scold him for letting that side of him out, claiming it’s only because he cares so much, to which I always, _always_ , want to reply,

_“I know you do, but when I see you so emotional it makes me want to be. And if I am too then neither of us are alert and neither of us our safe.”_

And he _has_ to be safe.

Or at least… as safe as he can be from where we stand.

 So perhaps when he’s snoring it’s simply his body’s way of expelling out all of that pepped-up personal emotion buried deep within him; the same emotion that he’s learning not to let show unless he absolutely must. And if that keeps me up for a few more hours then helpful every other night then I can live with that. At least then the last thing I will see and hear and feel before my brain finally gives in and my eyes fall closed, is the idea that Jean is caring about me, is caring about us, is caring that we live.

 

The others have become somewhat familiar with Jean’s tendency too. Of course they have, we’ve all slept in the same area countless times before- camping-out, hiding away, when we were trainees- and after all those times they have never ceased to ask me the same old questions,

_“Why don’t you get him some sort of medication?”_

_“Why don’t you just move to another room?”_

But they don’t seem to get it, at least not to the extent I try illustrate. On its own it stands at a level of devotion I am so incapable of describing with mere words; which only leads to a rather extensive lack of understanding as to what any of my feelings actually mean from the moment I set my eyes upon his face when I first wake up, right up to when I sense his shallow breath against my skin as sleep overcomes the both of us.

I don’t want to move rooms or give him something to halt the noises because I _don’t_ want it to stop.

I never nip his nose or place a cold limb against his own. I never complain or even tell him that he does it because although it becomes so tiresome after nights on end and truthfully there are some evenings when I wish he would just BE QUIET - I can’t bring myself to stop him because I can’t bare to be without that reminder.

It is important to me, it matters. In the same way his breathe against the back of my neck and the delicate brush of his lips between my shoulder blades does. It’s the same as the influence of my body pressed tightly against his own and his hands running across my marred skin when he’s kissing me.

Physical contact, human energy, expelling some sort of emotive radiation that remind me that we are both in the moment and that we are both living, breathing examples of humanity still standing a chance.

So no, I never want him to stop.

 

*

As smoothly as I can, I pull my body away from Jean’s clinging grip around my naked waist. A small but noticeable groan escapes in between the tuned hum of his deep breathing when my body shifts, and I can’t help but crack a little bit of a smile at his docile form. I twist my body round to face his own; my eyes level with the slow rise and fall of his bare chest, the skin partly glistening a golden orange from the rays of light reflecting through the double-fan window glass.

“You make me ridiculous.” I breathe, dropping my face down into his torso, inhaling his familiarly vintage scent. It’s odd really, that his natural aroma reminds me so much of what most would consider being far more rustic and elderly-inclined, despite his young age. Then again my knowledge on the nature of more child-like pleasantries is rather minimal; none of us ever really experienced childhood for what it’s worth after all.

Jean’s scent reminds me of the ground coffee that used to be handed out to the Wall Maria refugees inside their ration packs. It reminds me of the canvas tents we used to pitch on training missions, and of the burning leaves we’d set ablaze to keep warm on some of the dryer nights of the summer. Rather trivial in theory I suppose, but I’d only be lying if I spouted some nonsense about him smelling like lavender and freshly-picked crab-apples. Jean just smells like _Jean_ so I don’t ask for a budding spring rose garden or conglomerate of aromatic kitchen spices; all I ask for is that he stays alive so I can bury my face inside the crook of his neck every time the sun rises over the towering redwood trees surrounding the base, that piece-of-mind is enough alone to satisfy me.

 

Deciding its high-time the both of us get ourselves out of bed before the orchestra of morning drills begins cascading through the corridors, I pull my head upwards in a gradual manner, kissing ever-so softly at Jean’s face as he begins to stir.

His chin- right atop where some narrowly recognizable scar lay.

The left corner of his mouth- there located a small blemish of a freckle.

His bottom lip- slightly parted from the other, cracking but somehow still soft.

When my lips grace subtly over his nose he makes the faint groan again, so I take it upon myself to speed up his gradual wakening. Smirking, I take the tip of his nose between my teeth and bite down, only very lightly.

“ _Ow_ …” I hear him groan, though his eyes remain closed.  Dropping my gaze I notice the small grin playing on his mouth edges, his reaction provokes a slight snicker from me before I dip my head again, kissing his lips- harder this time- he returns it effortlessly.

A moment or two passes and with each lazy movement of our lips I feel Jean become more animated, eventually bringing a hand up around my neck, his fingers lacing within the loose strands of my hair.

“We should,” I whisper against his lips, “we should really get out of bed, the sun is up.”

“Mff-“ The brunette weakly protests against the corner of my mouth before pulling me in against his chest and burying his face within my matted hair.

His grip is tight but far from uncomfortable and instead of trying to pry myself up and out of the bed like any sensible person ought to do, I find myself drawing my arms up over his shoulders and holding him even closer. His chest rises and falls against my own, soft and rhythmic, it’s indescribably stimulating, impossible to refuse.

He is my weakness, or perhaps my strength… is it possible for them both to intertwine?

Can ones stability match ones vulnerability? Can they really lace together? Like some sort of growing grape vine up a twisting branch, maturing and ripening with age, each passing day becoming more and more alive. More fruits. More to enjoy and more to care for. More to loose.

Do I really want to know the answer?

“ _Mm_ , five more minutes.”


End file.
